


no-fun zone

by iron_spider



Series: whump 2020 [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, Gen, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider/pseuds/iron_spider
Summary: They’re quiet. They’re just standing there, like statues. The damn door is still open behind them. The walls are waving like warbling laminated paper.Peterpsstsat him.“Mr. Stark,” he whispers. “Hey. Hey. There’s—there are some guys here.”Why is Tony’s heart welling up with fondnessnow?When his bones feel like they’re being ground into a fine dust and shoved down his throat?“Kid…” Tony starts, but he stops, because his mouth feels like cotton again and the taller of the two guys is approaching him.“I’m going to take one of you into the next room,” he says, simply. “I haven’t decided which one yet. I think I know what I’m leaning towards, though,” he says, looking back at his companion.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: whump 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024756
Comments: 32
Kudos: 358





	no-fun zone

It was one of those off-campus situations that Tony isn’t incredibly fond of. More like he’s too paranoid to be true about being anywhere that doesn’t have _Stark_ on the outside of the building, or at least a giant _A_ that still managed to stick after a massive alien attack. But he went to the place with Pete to meet with the guy to do the thing and get the whatevers, because Peter was doing his intern thing and Peter had an idea and Tony was letting the kid run with it. Peter would get excited and his excitement would permeate and shine and make everyone within an eighty foot radius feel like they could move mountains, somehow. 

So it was one of those off-campus situations. It was somewhere that people didn’t know the kid was Spider-Man. There were very few places that people did know he was Spider-Man, and even then people like Pepper and Rhodey would still look at him like they wanted to pinch his cheeks and make him cookies. Tony didn’t blame them. He tried to act normal, though, despite the fact that Peter made his dad-senses kick into high gear. And dad-senses seemed to be a healthy dose of pride mixed with a swirling cocktail of mutant paranoia, a way worse version of the feeling that sits on his shoulders daily. But this paranoia is pointed directly at Peter.

Tony tries to act normal.

He tries to believe there aren’t threats looming around every corner, like some prick wanting retribution for Toomes or a building ready to collapse on top of the kid and trap him with his own panic. Because yeah, he told Tony that, two months after the fact, and yeah, Tony still thinks about it. Tony thinks about a lot of shit, he spies on Peter’s camera feeds and panics and talks to Pepper about it and panics and practically has Happy waiting outside his goddamn apartment on some nights, to make sure Peter gets home in one piece. Happy does that, whilst Tony panics.

So they’re in this parts warehouse in Queens and Tony is attempting to act like a normal human being _so hard_ that he completely misses the threat. That he completely and utterly doesn’t feel it, and the kid is supposed to have that danger sense but he doesn’t seem bothered by anything, but Tony _knows_ when he gets excited he gets distracted, but it doesn’t matter because he didn’t realize it and the fucking gas is filling the room and knocking them out before they even know what the hell is going on.

The last thing Tony remembers thinking before he drops, while his mind is melting and his body shutting down, is that he has to get to the kid he has to reach him and Peter is turning to look at him with questioning eyes and what if this doesn’t knock him out what if he has to fight what if he gets hurt again what if what if what if—

~ 

Tony wakes up tied to a chair. And he isn’t even sure he’s awake because his vision is absolutely bonkers and his head feels ten times its normal size and his mouth tastes like cotton and his eyeballs are about to fall out of his head. His limbs don’t feel connected. Bad. All of these things are bad.

Peter? Peter. Where. Where, that’s—the question, the million dollar question—

Tony can’t make hide nor hair of the room he’s in—it looks like a fucking Radio Shack—

“Oh shit,” he says, his own voice slurred and slippery, but it doesn’t matter because Peter is right there next to him, Peter tied to a chair too, except Peter doesn’t have ropes, he’s got like five or six pairs of handcuffs on his arms?? What the fuck?? Did they realize he had super strength? Tony’s brain is mush and the only thing he can think is that there were drugs in the gas or some shit—and they better not know the kid is Spider-Man, they better not, Tony isn’t prepared for that shit, he doesn’t have any of his contingencies ready—

“Kid,” Tony says, and the word doesn’t sound familiar. “Hey, hey, hey—”

Peter rolls his neck in a full circle, gasping up at the ceiling. Tony tries to notice more details about him but his brain simply won’t fucking process them, and he tries to test his bonds. He shakes back and forth in the chair and the entire room flips on its head.

“Mister Stark…” Peter says, and he’s slurring too, unless Tony’s imagining that. 

“Pete,” Tony says, blinking, and blinking, twisting his wrists around and burning and groaning and _suffering_. He shouldn’t be saying his name. Where’s the suit? A suit should be following Tony at all times. Especially when he’s with Peter. This is a child, he’s protecting a gangly giraffe child with pleading eyes and too much optimism. And look where they are. Fucking. Christ.

“Pete,” Tony says, his regret a storm in his eyes. He looks at the handcuffs. Too many. So many. They must know he’s enhanced. But fucking how? “Hey. Hey. Can you get out of all that?”

“All what?” Peter says, smacking his lips. “Aren’t we...what’s going on?”

“Bad deal, kid, bad. Bad shit. My head’s not on straight, and neither is yours, sounds like.”

Peter glances at him, his gaze all panicked. Like Tony’s heart feels. “Is it crooked?” he asks, quietly.

“Nope, it’s perfect, and we gotta get that perfect head outta here, kid,” Tony says. “Get outta that, get out of those.” Tony nods towards the handcuffs.

“Oh,” Peter says, and he blinks and blinks and doesn’t move. “Huh.”

Tony tries to look around, and it feels like he’s creating a campfire between his wrists with how he’s twisting them. The room closes in on itself like a trash compactor, and he winces, expecting it to actually happen, and squash him. But nothing does and he’s still sitting there tied up breathing through his mouth, and his brain is a wrung-out sponge at the bottom of a sink. With some moldy spaghetti clinging to it or something.

“Ugh, Mr. Stark, I can’t get my arms working,” Peter says.

Tony’s mind is like a bad PowerPoint. Flashing and glitching and bad transitions. This is bad. Bad. Why couldn’t he have been more aware? Why, why, the one time—

The door opens, slamming against the wall in a move that reverberates through Tony’s feet all the way through his skull. He winces and everything turns over again, in an acid wave. He tries to focus.

Two men without masks walk in. They’re both white and blond and kinda look like the nihilist dudes in The Big Lebowski.

He doesn’t know why he thought _without masks_. Was he expecting masks? Ski masks? Superhero masks? Did he think this was some kind of fucking prank? Steve’s way of showing back up? Waving his little flip phone in the air?

“Who the fuck are you, huh?” Tony spits out. “Let the kid go. He isn’t anybody. Well, he’s somebody, but not—not anybody for you. I’m sure this is some shit I did. It always is. I was a prick, right? But I’m repenting, I’m—repenting. Repentant.”

They’re quiet. They’re just standing there, like statues. The damn door is still open behind them. The walls are waving like warbling laminated paper. 

Peter _pssts_ at him. 

“Mr. Stark,” he whispers. “Hey. Hey. There’s—there are some guys here.”

Why is Tony’s heart welling up with fondness _now?_ When his bones feel like they’re being ground into a fine dust and shoved down his throat?

“Kid…” Tony starts, but he stops, because his mouth feels like cotton again and the taller of the two guys is approaching him. 

“I’m going to take one of you into the next room,” he says, simply. “I haven’t decided which one yet. I think I know what I’m leaning towards, though,” he says, looking back at his companion. 

Tony’s stomach twists, and he can still only see like he’s staring through a fishbowl. “No,” he says. “Don’t lean.”

“I think it’ll work better this way,” he says, “I think it’ll convince you quicker, to give us what we’re owed.” Tony shakes his head, even though he doesn’t really know _what’s_ happening. But his heart knows, his heart fears what the hell this guy is thinking.

Because he’s looking at Peter.

Tony thinks, anyway. His paranoia thinks. It’s screaming in his brain like echoes of a thousand concerts past. That AC/DC cover band. Jesus.

_FOCUS._

“No, no, hey,” Tony starts.

But the second guy is striding over and grabbing onto the back of Peter’s chair. He tips him backwards and Peter’s eyes go wide, like a comic book, and he glances over at Tony.

“No, no, no, hey!” Tony yells, struggling again, suffering still, and pain and pain and pain in his stomach and his head and his brain saying, screaming, _save Peter save save save him_. “Take me instead! I’ll do whatever! Whatever the hell you want! I don’t need convincing, dammit!”

“Tony!” Peter yells, being dragged, dragged away, and he’s moving more now like he knows what’s going on, like he feels the danger now through the fog of the drugs. 

And he never calls him Tony. Never. That breaks through Tony’s own haze, for a second, like a wrench against glass. A jagged broken line. 

“Tony!” Again. As he’s dragged through the doorway, chair scraping, Peter yelling, Tony yelling, yelling, words or not he isn’t sure, he doesn’t know, what the fuck is he saying? They’re taking Peter they’re taking him _who’s they, why, why the fuck is this happening—_

“Hey, hey, hey!” Tony screams, as the taller man smiles at him, cocking one eyebrow before he turns on his heel and follows. “Hey, no, don’t—I’ll fucking kill you—no, no, I’ll give you anything you want! What the hell do you want? Just bring him back. C’mon, c’mon—”

“Once you realize who I am,” the man says, hovering in the doorway, the air around him all wavy, “and what you’re guilty of, then we’ll come back in and we can proceed.”

He walks out. He shuts the door. 

Tony feels the air knocked out of him like someone is hitting him. 

But no one’s hitting him.

Peter is _screaming._

He sounds close and it’s shrill and for a second Tony can hear everything, can hear whatever it is slamming down onto Peter’s side, can hear breaking bones, and maybe that’s his addled mind making things up or maybe it’s fucking happening next door and he’s here tied to a chair like a moron—

“Hey, hey, stop!” Tony screams, trying to work at his wrists and his ankles more vigorously this time, twisting and wrenching and another _scream_ and another _TONY!_ And that one is strangled and accompanied by an agonized yell as another blow lands, and why can he hear them so clearly? Is this his fucking punishment? For whatever mistakes he’s made in life? Wasn’t the hole in his chest enough? 

“Stop!” Tony yells again, screams enough that the room twists and sinks and tries to close in on him. His throat is ragged. “Stop, hey, I’m not fucking good with faces, assholes!”

Peter screams again. And it aches in Tony’s heart. Aches, and rattles, and claws at the inside of his chest. How the hell is this happening, why, why, why—

“Whatever it is, I’ll give it you, alright, fuckers?” Tony yells, gritting his teeth. “I don’t know, I don’t goddamn know, a lot of shit happens, just stop hurting him—leave him alone, he’s not involved in this, take me in there instead, I—” He hears three blows land one after the other after the other, and Peter yells and then there’s another thump that sounds like something hitting the wall. 

It rocks the whole world. It jimmies some memories loose and they fall into Tony’s lap and he remembers Peter saying _so I wrote a poem today about the squirrel outside the window but I don’t know if it fits the assignment_ and he can hear Rhodey tossing the baseball at the wall and Peter whooping like _okay listen I’m not a sports guy—_

And Peter screams and calls for him. More hits and a scuffle now.

“Goddamnit, goddamnit, what the fuck,” Tony whispers to himself, tears stinging in his eyes as he tries to shove himself over to the door, like he’s gonna rampage in there like Rope Chair The Hero or something fucking dumb crap, and he thinks _I’m sorry kid I ain’t shit I ain’t shit I’m so sorry I never have been I don’t know how I convinced anybody that I was, especially you, you’re too smart for that—_

But instead he yells, “Hold on!” and his voice cracks like he’s fifteen again and he’s twisting up welts on his wrists, he knows it.

There’s another blow and Peter yells and then there’s Silence. 

Then a thump.

And then more Silence.

The silence is permeating in Tony’s head, mixing with the drugs like they’re dancing together at a Governor’s Ball, and Tony can almost hear Silence’s skirts swaying against the floor. 

Then he realizes what Silence means.

Or does he? It’s bad. His first thought is Bad.

He’s gonna puke, probably. He feels it rising in his throat, and it tastes like the hamburger from earlier. It tastes like the weird mustard that Peter turned up his nose at but was too sweet to mention.

“If you guys did anything to him,” Tony says, too softly, probably, for anybody to hear, “if you did anything permanent—I don’t care what you’re fucking mad at me for. I don’t care. I’m gonna kill you.”

_It can’t be. It can’t be. It can’t be. Peter’s too strong for that._

Tony listens. The silence gets louder, like the parts in horror movies when the wind howls and the shudders snap against the side of the house and two fucking Big Lebowski assholes couldn’t have killed his kid, could they? Peter was messed up, off his game, and Tony tries to shove closer to the door again, swallowing hard. His vision is still off, _still_ , but now the tears are making it worse, because Peter was happy today, because it was Chinese night tonight, and he was gonna get extra crab Rangoon for the kid and for Rhodey because they love to share—

The door opens. It feels like slow motion like it happens too slow too slow too slow—

It's Peter. One pair of handcuffs is hanging from his wrist, only one out of the hundred they’d held him down with for some fucking reason—still no explanation there—and his mouth is bleeding and his left eye is all bloody and his torso is bleeding too, through his shirt, and he’s holding the door open with one hand and clutching at his middle with the other. His fingers, pressing into the blood.

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” Tony croaks, his head swimming with relief and panic and fear and anger and _what the fuck_. “Oh my God. Pete. Peter.”

“Those guys were really rude,” Peter says, shaking his head and stumbling over. He narrows his eyes at Tony, the handcuff rattling like a death knell. “You’re closer. Than before. Different location.”

“Pete, you’re—you don’t look good, buddy. Bud.”

Peter scoffs and kneels down behind him, working at the ropes. “I look. Fine. I brushed my hair a different way today and I didn’t want—I mean, I thought it looked good. In the mirror. And May said it looked good even though she _ruffled it_ immediately after.”

He coughs and it sounds like it fucking hurts. 

Tony feels like he’s sobering up. A little. Kinda. The world is still shimmering but Peter is _hurt_. “I’m not talking about that. Your hair looks. Great.”

_It’s got blood in it_. He doesn’t say that. 

“Listen, listen, what’s all—what’s going on here, right now?” Peter says. He finally gets Tony’s hands free, and the first thing Tony does is reach down and grab Peter’s shoulder. Peter gasps, like it hurts when he does it, and Tony gasps too because the guilt attacks him on impact. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tony says, touching his shoulder lighter but still holding onto him. Peter crab walks over to Tony’s feet, and Tony just watches like a fucking moron as he unties his ankles, instead of helping him. “What happened? Peter.”

“They were like, beating me to death,” Peter says, glancing up at him with a grave expression.

His _eye_. He looks like a fucking boxer at the end of twelve rounds. 

“Not to death,” Tony says, shaking his head. “No.”

“To death,” Peter says. “And like...well, I couldn’t let that continue. Like, I couldn’t allow it to go all the way to death. I don’t wanna die, you know?”

“I know,” Tony says, nodding, full of sympathy. “Me either.”

The world narrows down to just the kid. All dark, all over, except for Peter. “Pete, are you—Jesus, kid, not your hair, but you don’t _look_ okay.”

“Okay, you’re free,” Peter says, nodding. Like he didn’t even hear him. 

“Okay, okay,” Tony says. He holds onto Peter’s shoulder as he struggles to his feet, and Peter straightens up too, swaying like he’s drunk.

Tony feels worse standing. Way worse. Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

“Uh oh,” Peter says, as the darkness floods back in again, and Tony’s brain tries to find an escape route. Like he uploaded Friday into his head or some shit. 

“Uh oh?” Tony asks. Peter is leaning on him hard, and he blinks. And blinks. “Pete? Hey.” Tony grabs onto him.

“Gotta, I gotta—just—be right back, okay?” He nods at Tony, and promptly goes completely fucking limp.

“Fuck,” Tony says, catching him around the middle, and the room shakes again with this new responsibility. “Shit, shit, okay. Got you. Got you, Webs.”

Precious cargo. Shit. Where the fuck—glasses, phone—necessary. He gets a better hold on Peter, hoists him up and drapes him over his shoulder.

He nearly topples over, in the process, which would be bad because Peter would land on his goddamn face if he did that.

“Nope, nope,” Tony says, righting himself, setting his feet more properly. “Shit. Got you. Got you, got you. Let’s go. Out. Home. Onward.”

He stumbles for the door. Clings to Peter like he’s the last thing on this earth, and he feels the blood seeping from Peter’s side onto his own shoulder. The fear rears its head, wild and feral, and it kicks him in the ass. 

Tony holds onto him, and he rushes out.

~

The whole place is like a fucking maze, even though it’s really not, but the drugs are still dictating what he sees and how he moves and that godforsaken baked bread smell in his nose. He finally finds their phones on the desk outside, where they were when this shit first went down, where a few other people are still knocked out. 

And Happy’s there within ten minutes. Ten minutes, while Tony paces and holds onto Peter, still a rag doll, still bleeding, still knocked out.

_How many people can you let down? Because this one will forgive you every time. Can you bear that? Can you live with that?_

He’s got a field trip at the end of the month. He’s talked about it no less than fifteen times. He appreciates museums and other people’s talents and efforts and work. 

_You’re going to the MOMA, huh?_ Tony had said. _I should chaperone._

Happy honks the car horn outside, and it sounds like salvation.

~

Peter wakes up. 

He wakes up feeling different.

He wakes up not wanting to move.

Yesterday in school they talked about Pompeii and all those frozen bodies, frozen in their last moments, whatever they were doing before that horrible heat rolled over them and ended it all. Just like that. Snap. 

He feels like that. Like that, frozen and broken and too hot and _ow, oh my god, ow, how many hurts can he have at one time?_ This is worse than last month with that Rhino guy. This is worse than a lot of different things, and he does _a lot of different things, all the time_ , and even the memories hurt right now, stabbing him when he tries to dredge them up.

He has a hard time seeing out of his left eye. No, not a hard time—he can’t see out of his left eye. It’s all dark.

He groans, reaching up to touch it.

“Baby,” May’s voice says. “It’s okay. Hey.”

“Eye,” Peter says, still grasping for it, and his arm fucking hurts when he moves it. “It’s—what’s going on with my eye, May—”

“It’s just bandaged, honey, you got cut right on your eyelid and Helen had to fix it up. It’s okay. You’ve still got your eye, you’re okay.”

Peter groans, trying to believe her. He feels over the bandage, the outside edges of it, and when he breathes in too sharply the pain flares up, tracing over him like he’s being dunked underwater. 

“Shit,” he breathes, pressing his hand to his ribs. Definitely broken. All of them. Every single one.

He starts to remember what happened. Little bits and pieces like a puzzle coming together, except it’s one of those ten billion piece ones and he’s having trouble putting things in their right spots. And part of him wants to but the other part of him feels like death itself, and he doesn’t feel like this that often. Not after his ‘boss battles’ (any time he winds up fighting somebody with enhancements or big, big guns), and definitely not after the day to day crap he could probably do in his sleep at this point.

“Sweetheart,” May says, and she stands up and looks down at him, cupping his cheek. “I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay, because I know—”

“I feel like I got run over by a truck,” Peter says. He croaks. His throat hurts like he’s been screaming, and then he remembers that he _was_ screaming. Every time the pipe connected with his body, and he remembers over and over and over—the blow to the head sent him flying. He can still feel the drugs in his system even now, but _then_ they were—bad. He didn’t know what _anything_ was, but every time they hit him it was like an alarm would go off. 

_get out_

_Get out_

_GET OUT_

“Don’t think too hard, Peter,” May says, and she leans in and presses a long kiss to his cheek. “Tony was telling me how he was feeling, after what they did to you, and he figures it hit you harder, for some reason.”

Peter sighs, leans towards her a bit before she pulls back again. He sighs, blinking, still totally thrown off by the eye and how shitty he feels all over. He reaches down and pulls his shirt up a bit, and sees that he’s wrapped up about thirty times over. He sighs again, swallowing hard. 

“Lemme go get Tony,” May says, leaning down and kissing his forehead this time. “He wanted to talk to you.”

“Kay,” Peter says, smiling at her. It’s always good to see her after something crazy happens. Like his calm after the storm, and he basks in it for a moment, trying to feel better. Trying to focus. 

“You want something to eat?” she asks, gingerly rubbing his arm, like she’s afraid of hurting him. “Soup or something?”

“No more Chinese?” Peter asks, his brows furrowing in disappointment. All the plans they had before what happened seem so strangely far away. 

May’s smile deepens. “I can see if we can manage it. Rhodey was here last I knew.”

“Crab Rangoon,” Peter says. “My only hope.”

May scoffs. She looks at him hard for a second, like once again, she’s surprised he’s still here. And then she nods, rubbing his arm. “Alright,” she says. “Gimme a second.”

He nods back at her, briefly squeezing her hand before she leaves the room. He lays there for a second, blinking, getting flashes of whatever the hell happened, how it’s tainted and tinted in his head. What kind of drugs affect him like that? That shouldn’t be possible, it shouldn’t _happen_ like that, and maybe he’s getting himself a little worked up to the point where tears are stinging in his eyes, all the possibilities of what could have happened overwhelming him in a thick fog of paranoia. And he isn’t exactly thinking of himself, despite the pain that’s all over him—he’s thinking of Tony. He’s thinking about what could have happened to Tony if Peter hadn’t been able to get the upper hand on those guys. They were only hurting him to hurt Tony.

“Hey, hey,” Tony’s voice says. And Peter realizes he’d been laying there with his eye screwed shut, one arm clutching at his middle again, and when he opens his eye again he sees Tony rushing for him, striding across the room in only a couple steps. 

“I’m okay,” Peter says, his voice breaking, and he shakes his head enough to make himself dizzy. 

“We don’t look okay,” Tony says, grabbing onto his shoulder when he gets close enough. “We look upset. We look like we’re crying.”

Peter snorts, wiping at his eye and straining the muscles in his arm with the movement. “We’re at the royal ‘we’, huh?”

Tony rolls his eyes at himself. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ve been telling the story to like twenty different people, we, we, we, all the way home.”

Peter nods, swallowing hard, sucking in a wavering breath. “I’m okay, I’m okay, just—thinking too much.”

“It’s okay,” Tony says, and he brushes Peter’s hair back out of his face, which makes Peter realize how much he’s sweating, which instantly makes him embarrassed. “It’s alright, you know I do that for a living, but nobody pays me. I just do it and I’m only rewarded with headaches and back pain.”

Peter snorts, which hurts, and he tries to get his breathing back to normal.

“Wanna sit up a bit, huh?” Tony asks, gently. He hasn’t always been this gentle, and he isn’t usually—things have definitely been different since Coney Island, and Peter’s not complaining. He’s a pretty tactile person, and May has always encouraged him to show emotion, so getting hugs and being able to express himself around someone he trusts as much as Tony has made his life a lot easier. And a lot better.

And he’s feeling _particularly_ like shit right now, and it would be way worse if he was having to try and act like he’s totally all cool and handling it like a pro. 

He nods, and braces his hand on Tony’s arm as Tony helps him move. Tony readjusts the pillows behind him quickly and then holds onto his shoulder too, helping him firmly but easily scoot backwards until Peter’s more upright. Peter nods and Tony lets go of him, fluffing the pillows up again before he gives up on it. Then he steps a bit closer, looking at him with concern, his hand resting on top of Peter’s wrist.

“I’m so sorry Pete,” Tony says, shaking his head. “Christ, those—maniacs were part of an Oscorp research project that happened about a hundred years ago feels like, and SI and a bunch of other companies sponsored and bought into it and it didn’t go as planned, a lot of the participants sued Norman but weren’t able to get the amount of money they wanted. I guess I wasn’t ever—they haven’t ever gone after me before. The company, sure, shit, but never—me and who I’m with, goddamnit.”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, and he doesn’t blame him at all, not one bit. Sometimes he feels blame when things happen but guilt always rides along with it, and he swallows the blame so no one’s hurting more than they need to. But the blame doesn’t flare up here. 

He doesn’t think he ever really blames Tony for things. He always just trusts him, and has hope in him. Knows his intentions are good.

“It’s not okay,” Tony says, glancing away from him and holding his wrist tighter. “You’re all messed up, bud—you’re all hurt because of me. They attacked you with a fucking pipe. Broke your fucking ribs, nearly took your eye out—goddamnit.”

“It’s _okay_ ,” Peter says, and he reaches up with his free hand and traces the edge of the bandage again. “May said it’s still under there, so. No harm done.”

Tony scoffs, blowing out a breath. 

Peter feels a little woozy for a second, getting another brief flash of the things that happened. The memories aren’t really set in his head right, and he doesn’t know if they’ll ever be. He wonders if there were security cameras there. “I didn’t kill them, right?” Peter asks, tentatively. He doesn’t remember. He just remembers the snap and crackle of the handcuffs as he broke them off. He remembers punching, remembers shadows, remembers thuds. But most of all his bewildered fucking mind was just yelling _TONY TONY TONY—_

“No, no,” Tony says, shifting his feet and shaking his head down at him. “No, you—knocked ‘em around, knocked their heads together, but the dumb pricks deserved it, after what they did to you. They’re still out of it but they were sort of answering our questions. I had to make sure they didn’t suspect you were Spider-Man—apparently they put all the extra handcuffs on you because you just wouldn’t sit still.” He clicks his tongue, and he still looks angry. “The drugs never knocked you out like they did me. You were still—active, the whole time. They didn’t get that shit either. Stupid assholes.”

“God,” Peter says. “I can still—I can still sorta feel it, though. Like—I don’t know, worms in my brains. Worms for brains.”

Tony reaches up and presses his hand to Peter’s forehead, and Peter closes his eye again. “Poor kid,” Tony says. 

Peter heaves a sigh, and opens his eye again when Tony pulls his hand back. “My healing should kick in soon, though,” he says, feeling the need to stop Tony’s sadness, get that look off his face. He’s been through enough. Peter knows Tony’s guilt is a twin to his own, and seeing him like this is probably making it flare up real bad. 

“Should,” Tony says, nodding at him gently. Everything is gentle about him right now, which puts Peter at ease. No more fake scenarios in his head. They made it, they’re fine, they’re _fine_. “But in the meantime—seriously. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, kid, this is on me, another mistake from my past rolling up to bite me in the ass and screw with the people I love—”

He stops himself mid-sentence, but Peter heard him anyway. 

He heard the word. 

He heard it, and his face shows he heard it, whether or not he’s got the use of both eyes right now or not. His mouth drops open a little bit and Tony immediately looks away and lets go of him, but now Peter’s smiling because he heard it because Tony just said he _loves_ him, that Peter is one of the people he _loves_ he said that he said that he totally just said it! Drug brain didn’t make that one up, Peter heard it, Tony said it! Iron Man loves him, Tony Stark loves him! It’s true it’s not fake he’s not just a little kid in a grocery store mask running around with a fake repulsor anymore claiming he’s Iron Man’s long lost son and driving May crazy. Nope, nope, he said it. Peter heard it.

“Anyway,” Tony says, shifting and still not meeting his eye. “Uh, anyway, yeah, I’m sorry—”

“Completely fine,” Peter says, clearing his throat, trying to go on as normal without acting like a complete lunatic. “I mean, I’m used to getting beat up, it’s something I do a lot—”

Tony sighs. 

Peter snorts, laughs hard enough that it hurts his tender goddamn ribs, and now he’s wincing and crying out a little bit, even if he doesn’t want to. He clutches at his middle, squeezing his eye shut again, and Tony’s reaching over and taking him by the far shoulder. 

“Alright, buddy,” Tony says, back to gentle again, the guard back down again, “okay, no laughing for you. This is a no-fun zone.”

“I like fun,” Peter says, voice a little bit strained as he tries to get through the wave of pain. “Fun’s like—my fave—my favorite.”

“I’ll plan some fun for when you aren’t all bruised and confined to a med bay bed,” Tony says, and Peter can feel him brush his hair back again. “Hey Fri, get some cooler air going in here, huh? Pete’s burning up. And maybe dim the lights a touch, they’re even hurting my goddamn eyes and I don’t have amped-up senses.”

Peter blows out a breath and settles back, the pain receding a bit again. He pops his eye open. “May said there was still hope for Chinese,” Peter says, blinking at Tony.

“Yep, she was connecting with Rhodey on that one,” Tony says, and his eyes are searching Peter’s face for a second, adjusting the collar of his shirt before he pulls his hand back. “How about Chinese tonight and we all watch a movie together or something? Your choice, unless you pick Star Wars again, then it’s my choice. Nothing too funny because this is a no-fun zone, remember that. Only tragedies.”

Peter starts to laugh but then Tony points at him, raising his eyebrows. Peter pulls a serious face. “Yup yup, okay, deal, yes.”

“Alright,” Tony says. He looks back behind him and pulls the chair up closer to the bed, sitting down and crossing his arms over his chest. “Take a nap while we wait, huh?”

“Don’t I need to tell you guys my order?”

“Please, I already know what you want. You always get the same thing, I’ll just tell ‘em to go double because you deserve it.” Peter sees him taking out his phone, surely messaging either Rhodey or May.

Peter smiles to himself. The whole experience is in tatters in his head, but he thinks he’s probably better off leaving it that way. Because they’re fine, no one’s dead, he’s here with people who _love him_ and he’s gonna be okay. Just another typical Friday, day in the life for Spider-Man. 

“Thanks, Tony,” Peter says, feeling like he’s earned the first name right now, maybe. 

“You’re welcome, Pete,” Tony says, softly, like he really means it.

Peter closes his eye again, ignoring the pain and trying to believe his healing is gonna kick in any minute. He thinks about crab Rangoon and May and Rhodey and whatever sad movie he’s gonna pick to make them all cry. He thinks about _people I love_ and feels a happy warmth in his chest instead of the pinching pain that was there before. 

He tries to find the beginnings of sleep, smiling to himself.


End file.
